


Loneliness is the spell

by seafoamlungs



Category: April in Paris - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seafoamlungs/pseuds/seafoamlungs
Summary: They said no more about women that night, or anything else for that matter, and soon went to bed. Yet something was different, and they both felt it; the slightest shift in the atmosphere; the smallest vibration of a plucked string. Over the following days, neither of them said or did anything to acknowledge this; still it was undeniably there, humming in the space between them. It was new- and yet it had always been there, somewhere at the back of their minds, unheard until this night. It was the familiarity of their friendship, and yet something more.
Relationships: Barry Pennywither/Jehan Lenoir
Kudos: 4





	Loneliness is the spell

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2016 immediately after reading the story because I accidentally skipped to the ending and read the words "holding hands", which made me think "Oh! Clearly this means the gentlemen end up in love with each other! How delightful! Le Guin said gay rights in 1962!". Imagine my disappointment when they just magicked up some ladies with very little personality instead! 
> 
> Tonight I found this while going through old documents. 2016 me wrote this with the full, sincere intentions of posting it, so- here you go. 
> 
> The parts in cursive are direct quotes from the short story. Which I obviously do not own. Le Guin- I respect your work tremendously and I apologize.

_So they were happy for the first time in their lives; so happy, in fact, that certain desires always before subjugated to the desire for knowledge, began to awaken. “I don’t suppose,” Barry said one night across the table, “that you ever thought much about marrying?”_

_“Well, no,” his friend answered, doubtfully. “That is, I’m in minor orders…and it seemed irrelevant…”_

_“And expensive. Besides, in my time, no self-respecting woman would want to share my life. American women are so damned poised and efficient and glamorous, terrifying creatures…”_

_“And women here are little and dark, like beetles, with bad teeth,” Lenoir said morosely._

“I certainly enjoy your company far more than any woman’s,” he continued. 

“Well, I could say the same for myself,” Barry laughed, suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed, as though having revealed a secret. Across the table, Lenoir appeared to have developed a profound interest in the hem of his shirt, his spindly fingers twiddling it back and forth, drawing Barry’s attention far more than he found comfortable. 

“Well, who the hell needs women anyway?” said Lenoir, grinning, meeting his eyes, and Barry suddenly found breathing difficult.

They said no more about women that night, or anything else for that matter, and soon went to bed. Yet something was different, and they both felt it; the slightest shift in the atmosphere; the smallest vibration of a plucked string. Over the following days, neither of them said or did anything to acknowledge this; still it was undeniably there, humming in the space between them. It was new- and yet it had always been there, somewhere at the back of their minds, unheard until this night. It was the familiarity of their friendship, and yet something more. 

Barry wasn’t so detached from these sorts of things that he didn’t realize what it was. It was love- of course it was, as undeniable and natural as gravitation. 

The next night passed; _and the next; and on the next, celebrating the successful dissection of the main nervous system of a pregnant frog, they drank two bottles of Montrachet ’74 and got soused._ Their drunken conversation wobbled this way and that, eventually tripping over its own feet, landing on the peculiar way in which their paths had crossed. 

“It really is estr…extraordinary,” Lenoir slurred. 

“It certainly is,” Barry agreed. “Just like something out of a science fiction novel.” Seeing his friends confused frown, he added: “It’s a sort of fairy tale. In the time I’m from.”

“A fairy tale,” Lenoir said, grinning. “Sounds quite romantic.” And with that, the tension in the air had returned, and all Barry could do was laugh raucously to cover his embarrassment. Not that he really minded. 

“Let’s do that again,” he said. 

“Invoke something?” 

“Yes! Just to try. See if the spell still works.”

_“What if I raised a devil this time?”_

Despite this frightening prospect, _they drew a pentagram, laughing wildly. ‘Haere, haere’, Lenoir began; when he got the hiccups, Barry took over. He read the last words._ Something small appeared in the pentagram, gleaming frighteningly white in the obscurity of the candle-lit room. A sudden wail made Barry flinch and gasp loudly, and Lenoir actually fell on the floor, but then the white shape came shyly forward with its tail hanging and the scholars realized it was a small, lost-looking dog and not, as they first thought, a devil. _The puppy sniffed Lenoirs hand, looked up at him with liquid eyes and gave another modest, pleading whine._

“Well, this was unexpected,” Lenoir said and stroked the puppy. It licked his hand and jumped all over him, wild with relief, which made Lenoir fall over again, laughing. Barry knelt beside him, feeling like his knees would have given up on him otherwise.

“At least it wasn’t the devil,” he said and petted the overjoyed puppy. _On its white leather collar was a silver plaque engraved: “Jolie. Dupont, 36 rue de Seine, Paris VIe.”_

“But why a dog?” he continued. 

“No clue,” Lenoir said. “Maybe she is also from another time. She obviously isn’t the devil, at the very least.”

“Look how happy she is,” Barry said, stroking Jolie’s white fur and instantly being covered in dog-kisses. “She must have been so lost and lonely, wherever she came from.”

They sat for a while, discussing various theories about Jolie and the nature of time, each theory increasingly far-fetched from intoxication and lack of sleep. Eventually Jolie fell asleep under a chair, and they had somehow moved to Lenoir’s bed, the wooden floor being too uncomfortable to sit on for a longer period of time. Soon the need for sleep overcame the need for scientific theorizing, and since Barry deemed it too complicated to move to his own bed, he stayed, the left side of his body lightly pressed against Lenoir's right. 

“It’s funny how alike Jolie and you and me are,” Lenoir murmured drowsily. 

“What do you mean, funny?” whispered Barry.

“We were all lost. We were all lonely before we met each other. I know I was. Lost and desperate to understand, to learn the secrets of nature, but never succeeding. And then you turned up.” He turned over, facing Barry. 

“Maybe that is the reason why this spell has brought us together,” Barry said. “Loneliness.” 

_“Alone,” Lenoir said gently. “Loneliness, eh? Loneliness is the spell, loneliness is stronger…Really it doesn’t seem unnatural. “_

And then, finally, the last remaining gap between them closed, and the vibrating humming in the background rose to a clear, gentle tone, and it was as it should be. 

In the morning, they woke to sunlight and each other and a white puppy, and _then they set forth to get breakfast._ The white puppy bounded ahead, the alchemist and the professor from Indiana followed, holding hands. _The narrow streets were crowded, bright with sunshine. Above them Notre Dame reared its two towers against the sky. Beside them the Seine rippled softly. It was April in Paris, and on the banks of the river the chestnuts were in bloom._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
